


Echoes

by Verasteine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Childhood, Conversation, Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-24
Updated: 2010-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:56:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verasteine/pseuds/Verasteine





	Echoes

"School," says Sherlock, and he sounds thoughtful, up until the point where he grimaces and looks down and away, and John knows him well enough by now to know there's a story behind this.

"It can't have been easy," he ventures, placing his verbal feet carefully on the tightrope of the conversation, because Sherlock is both precise and private. "You picking up things so much quicker than everyone else."

Sherlock still doesn't meet his eyes, fingers picking at a random thread on the armrest and then smoothing it again. "It wasn't that, not always."

John doesn't want to pry, but is curious at the same time, and keeps his mouth shut in the hopes of further answers that are unprompted.

Sherlock looks up at him. "A child has no control over where it's allowed to go, John, what it's allowed to do. There was, I think, a greater trial in that than the slow pace of learning."

John is reminded of the frequent outbursts of "Boring!" that come from Sherlock's direction, but he doesn't comment on it. He mulls over what's just been said. "You felt forced to sit in a classroom with twenty other children who were less clever than you."

Sherlock's mouth curves into a sneer for a fraction of a second, something John would have missed if he hadn't been paying attention to his expression. "Twenty noisy, stupid, ignorant, violent children."

John parses the words, assigns them meaning, tries not to leap to conclusions; but he knows Sherlock, knows his lack of sociability and his condescending manner. "You didn't get along," he translates, and Sherlock gives him a look.

"Really, John."

He makes an absent-minded gesture of irritation, because this is definitely Sherlock calling him stupid, even if the literal words haven't been said.

"Why this interest in my early upbringing?" Sherlock asks, tilting his head a fraction as if evaluating John.

John tries to think back to what started it, some mindless talk show or another, and the topic had come up. "I'm just curious," he admits, because there can be nothing wrong with human interest, can there? Wrong, of course, and he sees it in the distrustful frown that appears on Sherlock's face.

"Curious," Sherlock repeats, voice flat. "Of course you are."

"Sherlock," John starts, and knows he's rising to a bait that's been dangling in front of him since he moved in. "People do actually like knowing things about each other, and unlike you, most of us have to _ask_."

"Oh, boring," Sherlock replies with a gesture, and it goads John even more. He's used to being called all kinds of variations of stupid, but he lives with a genius, he can make allowances. This is less tolerable.

"You know all there is to know about me in a single glance, but I don't have that luxury," he presses on.

"No, John," Sherlock replies, sitting up a little and leaning his elbows on his knees. "There are all kinds of things I don't know about your childhood and upbringing, all manner of things I cannot read in your appearance or behaviour."

John shrugs. His privacy is invaded enough by Sherlock's abilities, although he suspects it bothers him less than others. Then again, even if he's no genius himself, Sherlock doesn't intimidate him, either.

"You tell me random things about yourself, and you never realise--" Sherlock cuts himself off, looks away again, and suddenly John's sitting up, too.

"Realise what?" he asks.

Sherlock looks back at him, eyes bright and piercing. "Knowledge is power, John. That's more true than people are aware of when they use that maxim. And power can be used against you."

A whole host of frightening possibilities occurs to him at once, not about the things he's told Sherlock -- Mycroft wasn't wrong when he'd concluded John trusted Sherlock -- but about why Sherlock would be so guarded.

Even geniuses want to be liked. And Sherlock craves an audience.

His eyes flick to the mantelpiece, where the skull grins wide-toothed at him.

"And this is when you pity me," Sherlock says, eyes still focussed on John, voice dead again.

"I don't pity you," John replies instantly, because he doesn't, and that's a truth he doesn't even need to think about. "I have compassion for you, maybe."

"Oh," Sherlock replies, and makes a throwaway gesture, "dull."

John shrugs again. Words echo in his memory, the way they echoed off tile walls in a pool. _All right, are you all right?_ He smiles slightly to himself. "Perhaps," he says, and thinks, _but you can't stop me._

\--

 _finis._   



End file.
